


patchwork boy

by triforced



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, get these kids some therapy, sylvain is not ok!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triforced/pseuds/triforced
Summary: And Sylvain laughs, for all that he wants to scream. He is truly losing his mind. It was him all along, the broken one among the four of them. The irreparable one. The patchwork boy, held together by string, stuffed with moldy straw and pestilence.“Dimitri,” he says, somewhat hysterically, “If I can’t be vulnerable with you, then I can’t be vulnerable with anyone.”
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 179





	patchwork boy

The war isn’t always over when the fighting ends.

“It was supposed to be,” Sylvain says, to his near-empty glass. It was full when he stumbled in here, however long ago that was. Long enough, he knows. He should’ve rejoined the celebration by now, or at the very least, should’ve lit a few candles. He’s sitting on the floor, in the middle of what used to be his dorm room. “It was supposed to be over,” he says again, emphatically, less to the wine glass and more to the pitch dark that settles over him like a shroud. “So why isn’t it.”

Part of him, he thinks, never left the well Miklan shoved him down. Another piece stayed behind in Edelgard’s throne room, lost among the bodies of enemy and ally alike. All his dalliances, his careless flings, more shards. His father…can he quantify his father?

The glass is empty; he sets it by his feet. Maybe he’s empty, too. Maybe he gave so much of himself that there’s nothing left now but a black hole, always hungry yet never satisfied. He smiles and laughs and flirts and fucks and fights and the chasm swallows everything in its path.

The war was supposed to be over.

“Sylvain?” A sliver of light slices through the dark as Dimitri cracks the door open. “Ah, there you are. May I…may I come in? You must not have heard me knock.”

Sylvain blinks while his eyes adjust. He doesn’t know how to feel about this, doesn’t know if this is how he wants Dimitri to see him. Not Dimitri. “You knocked?” He’s disoriented, he realizes, in a flash of sickening clarity. Woozy, but not in the fun, drunk kind of way. He lets out a dry chuckle. “Damn. Guess I need to lay off the red wine, huh?” Shakes his head, self-deprecating. “Yeah, sure, come on in.”

“Thank you.” Dimitri slips inside, closing the door gently behind him. Darkness envelops them both. (If it weren’t for his hair, his cloak, Sylvain could easily believe Dimitri had vanished. Just as easily, he could believe it was his fault.) Footsteps approach; with how tall he is, how long his legs are, it doesn’t take much, a couple strides at most, and Dimitri sighs as he drops down across from him. In the silence that follows, Sylvain waits, holds his tongue, prays Dimitri will humor him, will play along, but he knows better. “You left without telling anyone,” Dimitri says, soft, devastating.

Dimitri is too sincere, too kind, too _good_ , despite his ghosts, despite the madness he nearly succumbed to.

“So they sent the king to look for me? I’m flattered.”

Dimitri sighs again. “I’m not the king yet, Sylvain.”

“Eh, semantics. Listen, don’t worry about me, Your Highness.” Sylvain flaps his hand toward the general direction of the door. “Go enjoy yourself. You’ve earned better company than what I’m capable of.” (He’s capable of the correct form of address, at least.) “Besides,” he adds, grinning out of habit, “if you’re away too long, everyone will notice.” He traces his finger around the rim of his glass by his feet.

Dimitri doesn’t grin back, nor does he give any indication that he’s about to leave. “Two hours. Nearly three. We did notice. I noticed.”

The world comes to a screeching halt. “…What?”

Tentatively, Dimitri reaches out, removes Sylvain’s hand from the wine glass, where it has gone still. “Have you been in here alone this whole time?”

Sylvain surrounds himself with people. He surrounds himself with life, with energy, with _light_ , but even so, even so-

“Do you remember the demonic beast? Do you remember- do you remember Miklan? Do you remember how we killed him?”

Dimitri’s brow furrows. “Yes, I remember.”

Sylvain leans in, digs his fingers into the lining of Dimitri’s cloak, desperate for an anchor. “That could’ve been me. Without a Crest –” He grips harder. Tears prickle at his eyes. His lungs burn. This isn’t like him. The war isn’t over. “That _would’ve_ been me.” The war isn’t over. “I’m rotten, Dimitri.” He doesn’t recognize his voice. “I’m rotting, inside and outside, can’t you see it?” His breath catches on a sob.

For a long, agonizing moment, he and Dimitri stare at one another until Dimitri pulls him into his arms, holds him while Sylvain cries like he hasn’t cried since he was small, since he learned his Crest meant he had no reason to cry, no right. He cries and he clings, and Dimitri lets him, stroking his hair without a word. (I’m Felix, he thinks, inanely. Felix was such a crybaby.)

The minutes tick by, but they feel longer, they feel like hours, except – well, Sylvain can’t trust his perception of time, apparently, not now. He trusts Dimitri. Trusts him but hasn’t quite forgiven his atrocities. He draws closer, regardless, cleaves tighter, even though Dimitri’s armor discourages the contact he seeks; Sylvain had shed his own a while ago. And Dimitri understands, he must, because he returns the embrace, no questions asked.

And oh, how Sylvain wants him. Wants to ruin him, wants to be ruined by him, wants to sink beneath his skin and live there.

(A parasite. The chasm inside of Sylvain would swallow him, too.)

Gradually, the storm of his weeping tempers, slows, stops. His head aches, his eyes are full of sand, his nose runs. No wonder why Felix doesn’t cry anymore. Crying makes you feel like shit.

He’s about to tell Dimitri as much, once he lifts his face from where he’d hidden it (snot in the fur; Dimitri’s cloak has been through more hell than the entire army combined), but the words dry up, they’re gone, they don’t matter.

Dimitri looks at him, his lone blue eye half-lidded. Beautiful, even in the dark. His eyes were always beautiful; he was oblivious to the droves of swooning girls they attracted during their academy days, not to mention a fair number of boys.

Sylvain looks back. He has the distinct impression he’s holding something fraught and fragile.

Their faces are already so close; Sylvain tilts his head, inches forward just a little and Dimitri’s mouth is on his, sweet and open and Sylvain moans into it, a greedy, insatiable thing. He crawls further into Dimitri’s lap, tangles his fingers in his hair, deepens the kiss. He hears a thud, followed by another not long after- Dimitri’s gauntlets and gloves. His bare hands skim up Sylvain’s sides, beneath his rough spun tunic, over his ribs, and Sylvain shivers, and he wants, Goddess, he wants-

“Sylvain.”

Dimitri pulls back abruptly, and Sylvain’s heart sinks, becomes like lead in his chest. Of course. He expected this. It still hurts. He closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to examine Dimitri’s expression too closely, smiles a crooked little smile. “Sorry, got carried away. I know I’m not who you want-”

“Sylvain. Look at me.”

He opens his eyes. Dimitri drags his thumb over his cheekbone, gently, so gently. “Please do not misunderstand me. I care for you. I am not rejecting you. It is only-” He draws in a breath, leans forward, rests his forehead against Sylvain’s. “I know what it is to be rash, to act from a place of pain.” His other hand joins the first, cupping Sylvain’s face between them. “The place where you are the most volatile, the most vulnerable.” Dimitri’s voice drops to a whisper. “Let me protect you, for once.”

And Sylvain laughs, for all that he wants to scream. He is truly losing his mind. It was him all along, the broken one among the four of them. The irreparable one. The patchwork boy, held together by string, stuffed with moldy straw and pestilence.

“Dimitri,” he says, somewhat hysterically, “If I can’t be vulnerable with you, then I can’t be vulnerable with anyone.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. He’s confided in Mercedes, angel that she is. He’s found a kindred soul in Dorothea. Felix, Ingrid…he’d kill for them, die for them. Sometimes he thinks they know him better than he knows himself.

But they haven’t seen the ugliest part of him, they haven’t seen him like _this_. Only Dimitri has. Too sincere, too kind, too good. Dimitri, who thrashed and cried and paced night after night when they were students, tormented by voices of the dead; Sylvain heard him through the dormitory walls. Dimitri, who knew how to hide it, until he didn’t.

Sylvain (empty, rotten, parasite) is still hiding, from everyone but him. Is still bleeding out on a battlefield somewhere, because the war isn’t over.

Dimitri gives a tiny nod, as if to acknowledge it, as if to say, ‘I see you.’ His hands are warm, as steady and unwavering as his gaze. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I want,” Sylvain pauses, swallows around a lump in his throat. Is he really gonna cry again? Really? Fuck. “I want you to want me.” Pathetic.

In lieu of a reply, Dimitri kisses him. It isn’t chaste, it isn’t nice. It’s biting, it’s dominating, it’s demanding. He plunders, and Sylvain opens for him, melts against him, heedless of the way his skin chafes when his tunic rucks up. “Why do you think I’m here?” Dimitri helps him pull the tunic the rest of the way off, voice gravelly and deep, deeper than usual. It goes straight to Sylvain’s cock. “Nobody knew where you _went_ , Sylvain.”

He feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him.

Dimitri coaxes him forward again, presses his lips to the soft underside of Sylvain’s jaw, speaks the dizzying truth there. “I was afraid I had taken you for granted, all these years. I was afraid of what would happen if I found you.” Sylvain closes his eyes. Dimitri twists the knife. “I was terrified of what would happen if I didn’t.”

White magic can get a soldier back on their feet, keep them from the brink of death, but the more serious the injury, the more extensive the care required to mend it. Some wounds are best lanced, drained, cauterized.

“Fuck me,” Sylvain whispers, “Please.”

His heart is in his throat. He feels Dimitri breathe, feels the hesitation, the pause, tries to brace for a refusal.

Instead, Dimitri drags him into another kiss, long and lingering. “All right,” he says, a bit shakily. He takes Sylvain’s hands in his, brings them to the clasps of his cloak. “Help me with this?”

Goddess, it’s disgusting how badly Sylvain wants him.

The pieces of Dimitri’s armor fall away, black as the darkness that surrounds them, leaving behind an expanse of scarred skin that Sylvain drags his fingertips across. He likes the way it makes Dimitri shudder.

A thought occurs to him. “Have you ever done this before?” He’s fairly certain Dimitri hasn’t, but he needs to be sure.

Dimitri touches his tongue to his canine tooth, a nervous habit. “Once,” he admits, managing to sound bashful about it, which Sylvain can’t help but be charmed by, even though his mind is breaking open. “When the voices were…particularly unkind.” The amusement curdles in his stomach. “I was desperate for silence.”

I’d kill all of them, he thinks, taking Dimitri’s face in his hands, kissing his perfect mouth. I’d reach into his head and drag them all out, one by one, and I’d kill them so thoroughly they couldn’t come back to haunt him. (Sorry, Glenn, you too.) “What a pair we make,” he says, aiming for sarcasm but landing on something like grief.

“You aren’t rotten.”

A beat, and Sylvain surges against him, seized by desperate ferocity. He needs Dimitri’s cock in him, he needs it now, he’s never been harder in his life, he has to get his fucking pants off, they’re both still clothed from the waist down, on the floor, in the middle what used to be Sylvain’s dorm room. This is ridiculous. His entire life is ridiculous. A mummer’s show, starring the miraculous, Crested patchwork boy.

Shut the fuck up and take your pants off, Sylvain.

“Stay there,” he tells Dimitri, scrambling out of his lap, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. “I’ll be-” He doesn’t finish the thought; he’s too wound up. He kicks off his boots, shimmies out of his breeches and smalls, stumbles to his desk where he’d stashed a vial of oil when their base of operations moved to Garreg Mach.

Normally, he’d go slow, tease a little, maybe ask his lover to do it for him, but he has no patience left. He dumps the oil over his fingers, and then, free hand flat on the desk, jams them into himself, one, two, three, hardly allowing any opportunity to adjust. He’ll hurt tomorrow, and that’s exactly what he wants.

By the time he deems he’s finished, they’re both breathing hard; Dimitri has only removed his codpiece, likely distracted by Sylvain’s haphazard preparations.

“Forgive me, I—”

Kneeling, Sylvain kisses him. “You always did take the silliest things too seriously,” he says, with absurd fondness. He gives Dimitri a perfunctory stroke, both to fluster him and to spread some of the remaining oil on his hand, and he’s convinced he’ll remember the way Dimitri whines for the rest of his life. “It’s hot like this, you know?”

“ _Sylvain_.”

Laughing, he reorients himself, back pressed to Dimitri’s chest, Dimitri’s hard length curved against the cleft of Sylvain’s ass.

Close, but not where he needs it. At all.

“I’m gonna—” He raises a bit on his knees, reaches behind him to hold Dimitri’s cock steady (he’s so big, Goddess, he’s so big), and sinks down, and down, and down. He feels like he’s being cloven in two. He feels like he can’t breathe. Every slight shift of his limbs is agony.

It’s liberating. He isn’t empty. He isn’t _empty_.

A hand on his cheek, Dimitri’s voice in his ear, low and wrecked already. “Are you okay?”

The angle is awkward, yet Sylvain grins, kisses him anyhow. “Yeah. Come on, big guy, move.”

And Dimitri does. He wraps an arm around Sylvain’s middle, tight, locking him in, leaving him nowhere to go, and rolls his hips. Sylvain cries out, his head falling back into the dip between Dimitri’s neck and shoulder, hands seeking purchase on Dimitri’s wrist and armored thigh, respectively.

Dimitri mouths at his neck, voice laced with concern. “Too much?”

“Absolutely not,” Sylvain rallies, panting. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Whatever Dimitri sees or hears must satisfy him, because once he starts moving again, all Sylvain can do is hold on while Dimitri takes him apart. He’s loud, he’s shameless, he’s completely overwhelmed. And it’s good, it’s so good, it’s all he’s ever wanted.

“Fuck- Dimitri. Come on. I’m close, come on.” He reaches back over his shoulder, twists his fingers in Dimitri’s hair and Dimitri obviously doesn’t mind the sting because he groans, grabs Sylvain’s hips, drives him down onto his cock even while he rocks up to meet him.

Sylvain doesn’t last long, after that. A few strokes of his own hand and he comes with a howl, exhausted and trembling. Dimitri follows close behind, forehead pressed to Sylvain’s shoulder blade.

“Do you think Manuela has a poultice for chafing?” Sylvain says, once he’s caught his breath.

Dimitri lifts his face. “I—I’m sorry, what?” He sounds utterly dumbfounded. Which is fair.

“A poultice. For chafing. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, Your Highness, but your dick is huge, and I just rode you while you had your armor on.”

Silence. And then, “Sylvain,” Dimitri sputters, returning his face to its previous location. “Why are you like this.”

Sylvain laughs. He’d almost forgotten how good genuine laughter feels. “I only speak the truth!”

“Please stop.”

“Would you have me any other way?”

He says it nonchalantly, but there is nothing nonchalant about it.

“No,” Dimitri says, “I would not.” He brushes a kiss against Sylvain’s temple. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

They dress, they finally light some candles, they talk. Not about all the things they need to talk about, but there will be time for that. Dimitri is returning to the victory celebration. 

“Only to reassure everyone,” he says, as if Sylvain needs the reassurance. “I won’t be gone long. Wait for me?”

Sylvain smiles. “Always.”

The war isn’t over. But someday, he thinks it might be.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I thought to myself, dimivain is pretty neat! I haven't written anything in AGES and I'm terribly rusty, but I'd like to contribute some filth! But then Sylvain's repressed trauma burst through the wall like the Kool-Aid man and was all YOOOO GIMME YOUR LUNCH MONEY NERD and I was like.......oh. aldsfklasfasfj In any event, I hope I did our boys some measure of justice, oof. Thank you for reading! <3


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